We sit down and chatter for a bit and then the waiter bounces up to take the drink orders. I explain to him that I'm not drinking beer and would like something in place of. He looks at me baffled. Yeah, I know, it's hard to believe. He makes a few margarita suggestions, all of which, don't sound that spectacular, but I figure, "When in Rome, have a margarita."
With the help of one of my lovely wife's friends, I place an order for a blue margarita. I even called it by name: "Blue Rita." Upon saying this aloud, my manhood completely disappeared. All that I had worked for my entire life was wiped away in three syllables. It's as if I reached in my pocket, pulled out two marbles and said, "I'd like to exchange these for a blue coconut drink, please."
This "no beer" crap was starting to really become painful. And, like a sitting duck, I was sitting on the outside of the booth--exposed to everyone in the immediate dining room. The chatter continues as we wait for our drinks to arrive. I was starting to become really nervous. It was like jitters before a blind date. I mean, I've never been on a blind date, but I imagine this is what it's like. I wait patiently for my drink to arrive and, as time passes, I become less interested in the conversation and more attentive to the movement of waiters and the drinks they're carrying--following each of them with one eye as they pass.
Then, I see my date.
The waiter starts walking directly toward our table and there's no mistaking which one is mine--a towering blue martini glass filled with ice with an orange sliver on the lip and a large shaker which, by my observation, must contain the contents of my drink. I begin to slide down in my seat. She sits down in front of me. I don't have the nerve to tell her how ugly she is. I just smile instead.
And, it's not her fault. I mean, she's a blue drink. And, I'm sure on most Saturday nights, she's the life of the party, but I'm just not feeling her at all. I begin to feel like everyone in the room is looking at me. I kinda leave it out in front of me for a few minutes like, "Oh, this is clearly a mistake. I didn't order this crap. Someone must be playing a nasty prank on me." The damn thing had a straw sticking out of the top. Put me in a skirt and call me "Michelle."
With a few more moments of hesitation, I just jump right into it. I deliver my lame trademark, "Hey, well at least it ain't heroin." I pour it in the glass. Crap, it really is blue. I use the straw to stir it and then toss the straw aside. Here goes nothing.
The first sip was really strong. It was the kinda drink that would knock your date on her tail end. Sad reality was, I was that date. I didn't like the salt around the rim. I know it's customary, but it was kinda gross. I didn't like the coconut taste because, well, I hate coconuts. The tequila was pretty good, but I'm sure it was the cheap stuff. I just don't really know the difference. I didn't really sip the drink because I figured sipping it would only worsen my circumstances. So I just begin taking it back like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer day. Thing goes straight to my head--not like a beer. Clearly, not like a beer.
I wasn't trashed at the end of it, but I felt like trash--maybe of the "white" origin. I felt like some teenage girl that crossed the border to Mexico and got drugged by a local. Whatever I felt like, I didn't feel good.
I figure that guys need a margarita they can feel comfortable drinking. I brainstormed a few moments at the table. I developed a drink called the "manarita" which is delivered in the same stupid martini glass, but contains nothing but whiskey and scotch. And no straw.
Here's to beer and March 8th.